


I know I'm not the center of the universe but you can spin around me just the same

by feralpixiedreamgirl



Category: Malcolm in the Middle
Genre: Accidental Boners, Blow Job, Brother/Brother Incest, Cuddling, M/M, Masturbation, Shame, bed sharing, beta reading is for people with morals, dead fandom goes brr, hand holding, more tags will be added as we continue our adventure, the boys are a little closer in age to francis because I said so, violence is sexy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:53:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26431468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feralpixiedreamgirl/pseuds/feralpixiedreamgirl
Summary: Reese gets to have something for himself, but isn't able to appreciate it. Malcolm gets to have something for himself and learns to appreciate it with time.
Relationships: Malcolm/Reese (Malcolm in the Middle)
Comments: 88
Kudos: 113





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have been working on this horny prompt fic for a while and it kept getting longer and longer and i just needed a break from it, because writing is hard, but i still /needed/ to write /something/. so i offer you this instead, a wilkercest fic i started months ago that was supposed to be porny one-shot, too, because, honestly, that's what I'm about, but has now become the first chapter of my first multi-chapter fic instead, because, why not. let's try something new ;)

The first time it happens, Francis had just been dragged to military school kicking and screaming the previous week.

Dewey has been sharing a bedroom with his brothers for four years by then, but had slept in the crib he had been moved into the room with when he was two years old – a small bed with wooden bars that had also housed Malcolm and Reese before.

Francis's crib, of course, Lois hadn't been able to salvage after he was done with it.

With Francis gone and Dewey so big that he can't even stretch out his legs on his own mattress, they really had been no question that their sleeping arrangement had to change.

After a short fight about who is gonna get the twin bed all for themself – a luxury in the Wilkerson household – during which even tiny Dewey had foolishly thrown his hat in the proverbial ring, their mother had put her foot down. Obviously Reese, being the oldest, should get the narrow bed by the wall. Malcolm and Dewey, of course, would have to share the big mattress in the middle of the room.

Reese had been delighted with this development. Moving his bedding to his new sleeping berth had involved so much gloating that Malcolm had had to kick him in the shin to take him down a peg (a move he had to pay for with Reese's spit in his meal at dinner the same evening).

Malcolm himself had gotten over his disappointment pretty quickly because Reese always had been a notorious sleep kicker. His dreams probably involved as much violence as his waking hours. Sharing with feeble Dewey could only mean a much more refreshing sleep.

This assumption though is proven to be a foolish one when during the very first night Malcolm is rudely and suddenly awaken by someone jolting him repeatedly.

He is disoriented only for a moment. Then, as his eyes adapt to the dark room, he can make out Reese, standing next to his bed, illuminated by the weak glow of a street light. Malcolm rolls onto his back, still all drowsy, and shakes off the hand that is shoving at him.

"What?" Malcolm asks, in a low tone, clearly annoyed.

"Scoot over", Reese whispers.

"Why? You pee your bed or something?"

"No, I'm cold."

"You're cold."

"Yes, I'm cold. Now move."

Malcolm raises halfway up to lean back on his his elbows. To say he is skeptical is an understatement.

"Go get yourself another blanket then." Dewey is small, sure, but he had stretched out like a starfish during the night, now that he finally could. The idea to share the space with a third person is not one Malcolm is fond off, especially not if that person is Reese, the Nightkicker. That is to say nothing of the possibility that this is actually just a cheap trick.

"The other blankets are in the washer. Come on, stop being a bitch."

Malcolm can see that Reese had draped his bed sheet over his shoulders like a cape, holding it closed on top of his chest.

It is true that the temperature had dropped in the last few days. Fall seemingly had wanted to start early this year, oblivious to the state of the medieval heating system installed in their house. The letters of the clock on their bedside table glow a ruby red 1.33 am.

Now that he’s over the confusion of being jolted awake at this ungodly hour, Malcolm can really feel the fatigue tugging at his eyelids. He sighs. It’s way too late for this kind of nonsense. Or too early, depending.

"Okay, whatever, then I'm just gonna take your bed." He starts to gather his blankets.

"No, you can't!" Reese answers, way too loud. He looks generally unhappy at the prospect.

Malcolm draws his eyebrows together in suspicion. "Why not? If you're not using it... "

Instead of answering, Reese just glances down at the floor

"What are you trying to pull here?"

"Nothing." Reese insists. "It's not gonna be warm enough if you sleep in the other bed." Malcolm thinks he can hear Reese shuffling his feet in an uncharacteristically childish gesture.

He is far from convinced. But he is also tired as all hell.

"Fine. But if you try anything I swear to God... " He makes room for Reese by skidding over to the left and then pushing Dewey, who just gives a loud snore and rolls over on his side without much fuzz.

While he rearranges his cushion he can feel the mattress dip behind him as Reese lies down. Malcolm reclines in a position on his back and defiantly crosses his arms across his chest.

He will just ignore Reese, he decides. Maybe, if he just waits till his brother falls asleep, he can climb over Dewey and then take the twin bed for himself after all. He is about to close his eyes again, when Reese lifts up his blanket and climbs under it.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Malcolm snaps.

"I told you, I'm cold." Reese shrugs non-nonchalantly and puts his bedding on top of Malcolm's, on top of them both. "Sharing body heat. I saw it on MacGyver."

"We're not in the Antarctic!"

"Jesus, Malcolm, why do you have such a piss baby about everything." Reese doesn't seem to be dissuaded by Malcolm's objections. He had taken his own cushion with him and now settles his head down on it, only a few inches away from Malcolm's own.

While Malcolm stares at him in disbelieve, Reese simply closes his eyes, ignoring him.

After a few minutes Reese' features relax, his mouth hanging slightly open, while Malcolm’s heart beats fast in the darkness, inappropriately so, both for the hour and the occasion. He blames his nervousness on the fact that any situation that involves being this close to his bully of a brother is a dangerous one, objectively speaking.

Sharing the bed isn't anything new for him. It’s a fact of life that he long has accepted, just like always having to be suspicious of things that come too easy or having to fight his brothers for the unburned part of Thursday night lasagna.

But it also isn't something any of them have ever chosen for themselves, always something that has been forced upon them out of necessity. Being actually physically close to one another comes with bruises and split skin, with punching and kicking and gritted teeth.

And he has to admit to himself, that, yes, this is kinda nice. In a weird way. He doesn't think he had actually been cold before, but he does appreciate how Reese feels like a comforting radiator next to him under the blanket.

He sighs in an unconscious show of resigning himself to his fate without anyone actually there to witness it, turns over on his side and finally lets sleep find him.

When he wakes up the next morning, Reese is already up, his blanket and pillow back on his own bed.

At breakfast neither of them mention it.


	2. Chapter 2

It becomes a habit. Both the late-night visits and the not-talking-about-it. 

The second night Reese climbs into bed with him he doesn't bother waking Malcolm up, but Malcolm's bleary eyes open the second his covers are lifted and the cold air hits his naked feet. He can feel Reese crawl under the blanket behind his back and lying down without touching him. But Malcolm is still half asleep and it's easy to slip back into the dream he had barely left behind in the first place.

The third night, Reese's presence is hardly registered. Malcolm falls asleep by himself, then, hours later, pushes his blanket down past his chest, when Reese's warmth makes the temperature rise under it. He finds himself alone again when he wakes in the morning, to Dewey loudly screeching in the kitchen.

After that he stops counting.

And it's not like Reese comes over every night. There are stretches of time where Malcolm sleep is completely undisturbed and in the morning there is none of the smell of the cheap Lucky Aide shampoo Reese uses (the one with the weirdly aggressive lettering on the front, telling you it is "for men") lingering on his sheets.

Malcolm is still uncomfortable though. At breakfast he will avoid eye-contact if they have shared the bed for most of the night, until Reese punches him on the arm or calls him an asshole for something or other, breaking the tension. His brother on the other hand isn't effected by their strange non-arrangement at all, as far as Malcolm can tell. Every morning he's back to his usual brutish, loud and obnoxious ways and if it weren't for the fact, that Malcolm can still smell the shampoo when he presses his nose into his blanket the night after, he would think he had conjured the whole thing up in his weird brain.

It's frustrating, just really frustrating, how Reese will not talk about it. But then again, Malcolm doesn't breach the topic either. It's much more comfortable though, to be angry at Reese, in secret, than it is to constantly worry and brood. And besides, Malcolm has been this close to mentioning it that one time, when him und Reese had been home alone and watching "Cops" on TV in some kind of amicable silence. This close, after turning it over and over in his head for a while, thinking and overthinking the way he should phrase the question -- and then Stevie had called and asked if he could come over.

And maybe he's blowing it all out of proportion. What has really happened if you looked at it objectively? His brother had been cold and so he had come over to get warm again, get a good night's sleep. Had climbed into the bed Malcolm already shared with his other brother. Fall had come with grey skies and great rain showers and it had been getting even colder since the first time Reese had decided to head MacGyver's advice. So no big deal, right? Maybe Reese doesn't talk about it, because there actually wasn't anything to discuss. Wouldn't be the first time Malcolm has worried himself into a frenzy. Teen angst is his default mode after all. That and the generalized anxiety.

So, after a few weeks of flip-flopping between annoyance and dread, he finally decides that this is fine, actually, this is normal, and not even the realization that, of course, the extra blankets have long since dried and found their way back into the closet again manages to make him spiral.

Things are different however, the next time Malcolm is abruptly torn from his well-earned sleep. He actually hadn't thought much about Reese during the day. While Malcolm had been stuck inside for the afternoon doing work for school, Reese had been AWOL since lunch, probably terrorizing the neighborhood. He had arrived back home long after dinner, had responded to their mother's tirade with an eyeroll and a shrug and eaten some of the then cold left-overs standing in front of the open fridge, while Malcolm was already brushing his teeth. When he went to bed Malcolm had long been out cold. 

He is awake now though. He's not quite sure what it is exactly that makes him open his eyes, but as soon as he does he realizes Reese is looking right back at him. There are nothing but shadows all around them and it's so quiet that he can hear Dewey snoring contently and Reese is just staring at him like it's the most normal thing in the world. Malcolm wipes away the nearly dried residue of spit crusting his cheek before he whispers: "What?"

Reese grins. "Wanna know what I did all day?"

Malcolm is annoyed, but way to sleepy to vocalize it. Instead he sighs and decides to indulge Reese on the off chance that that will get him back to sleep sooner. "What did you do all day?"

"You know that girl from a few doors over? Dark hair? I think she's like half Japanese or something."

"Anne? No, Anna. Yeah, sure, what about her?"

The grin is getting wider.

"A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell." Malcolm is inclined to take his pillow and scream into it. But Reese is lying on it. Hadn't even bothered to bring over his own.

Reese seems to catch his annoyance and stops playing coy. "Well, after I spend hours hunting down this disgusting foreign movie ... I think it was Italian? I had to call in some serious favors for that one and I can not overstate how fucking disgusting it was, but it was either that movie or this French one about some donkey? Anna is weird, man, super fucking weird, but you know what else she is?"

Malcolm tries to shrug, but the gesture probably gets lost because of his position.

Either way, Reese continues: "Really horny." He wriggles his eyebrows and Malcolm can hear his heartbeat rushing in his ears. "Yeah?" he asks lamely. 

He doesn't know what it is. Maybe the moment feels so much more intimate because of their close proximity. Or the fact that it's the middle of the night and everyone else in the house is asleep. And why the hell did Reese deem it even necessary to climb into his bed to tell him this? It seems like there is something weird going on and Malcolm just can't figure it out and it makes his heart all ... fluttery.

"Yes. And just as the Italians start to... no, wait, I don't want to think about what the Italians have been doing. Anyway, Anna leans over and just slips her tongue in my mouth."

Malcolm snorts. It's a desperate attempt to distract from the heat rising in his cheeks. Which is probably unecessary, it's pretty dark in the room after all. 

"And let me just say, she's a professional. Her lips are all soft and she knows exactly what to do with her tongue. And look!" At this Reese takes his lower lip between two fingers and pulls. Malcolm does look, but he has no idea what Reese is talking about. "See?" he mumbles. Malcolm shuffles uncomfortably closer till he can see the tiniest of cuts splitting the skin.

"Ah."

"She fucking bit me!" Reese sounds very excited about that. Malcolm shushes him and listens for a moment for any noises that could mean that they parents have woken up.

"Not to be weird, but it was pretty hot. Only hurt a little bit, too," Reese admits, voice now lowered. Malcolm's gaze is drawn back to the cut. It's not bleeding, but Reese's wide grin puts the skin under strain. He has the weirdest urge to lick it.

"What?" Reese asks.

"Nothing. Can I go back to sleep now?" Malcolm doesn't know why he sounds so angry. He doesn't want to talk about this anymore. He just wants to close his eyes and be done with this conversation.

"Geez, no need to be jealous." Reese laughs at him, which doesn't help.

"Whatever. Good night." Malcolm turns over, effectively ending the conversation by showing Reese his back. He expects Reese to leave for his own bed, but that is, of course, foolish. Reese doesn't move, and after a few minutes Malcolm can hear his breathing slow down. He feels strangely restless, like the air in the room is too thick for him to breathe. It takes him a while to fall asleep again, and when he does his dreams are haunted by blood and soft lips and horny japanese girls trying to eat his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone was wondering, Reese has spent his evening with Anna Biller watching (or rather enduring) "Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom". Maybe he should have picked the donkey movie, "Peau d'âne", it's much sweeter lol.
> 
> I also took the liberty of rewriting the first chapter to change the tense (or tried more like, eeks). As I said, I started this fic a while back and past tense now feels kinda weird to me?
> 
> Also: second chapter! second chapter! This show is now officially on the road :p


	3. Chapter 3

At dinner the next day Reese won't stop fiddling with his lip. Inbetween forkfuls of Kraft's mac and cheese he rolls it between thumb and forefinger, absentmindedly, till it's dark red and swollen. The cut looks like he must have been giving it the same treatment the whole morning, the wound bigger now and scabbed over.

Malcolm can't stop staring.

Around him there is a lively conversation going on. Dewey has just recounted something that happened between the lunch lady and one of his classmates at school today and their mother appears to have some strong opinions about the incident. Malcolm doesn't pay much attention to them. There is a thread of spit that connects Reese's finger to his mouth when he lets go to reach for his glass of diluted orange-juice. Malcolm grimaces as it breaks and leaves the tip of Reese's forefinger wet.

His own dish is long cold. He finally takes his fork, pokes around in it for a bit, cradling his head in his hand. It needs the support. After the strange dreamscapes his mind had escaped to last night, he had woken up red-eyed and like he hadn’t actually gotten a lick a sleep. As usual Reese had already been up (if the screams were anything to go by, he had been chasing Dewey around the living-room), so at least he hadn’t have to worry about accidentally poking him with his dream induced boner. Gotta look at the bright side.

  
The pasta makes a squishy noise as he pushes it across the plate. Sadly, it doesn’t get any more enticing.

“Is something wrong with your food, Malcolm?” The tight voice of his mother makes his head snap up. He’s quick to tell her that, no, it’s fine, and shovel some of the gooey orange mess in his mouth. Her discussion with Dewey seems to have put her in a foul mood.

“I think it’s delicious, mom,” Reese declares from across the table.

“Stop brown-nosing, Reese.”

When he looks at his brother, Reese grins back at him, shrugs and starts chewing on his lip. Malcolm feels himself getting hot under his collar, which is as annoying as it is confusing, and so he just tries to concentrate on clearing his plate. He can’t really taste the food through the screams of “What the hell is the matter with you?!” that echo around in his head.

  
After dinner, their mom assigns him and Dewey to take care of the dishes. While Malcolm dries them with the tacky pink towel, Dewey is busy soaking his clothes and flooding the kitchen. Mentally, Malcolm is back in bed with Reese. Is thinking about how he had proudly presented his war wound and how Malcolm had been and continues to be an absolute creep about it. It doesn’t happen very often, Reese showing his more accessible side. Reese being nice? Once in a blue moon. And if this … thing … is actually one of those times, Malcolm should really try and be more appreciative. Even though Reese is acting like an idiot. 

Which, typical.

Maybe Reese just misses Francis. Malcolm does. He has called him nearly every day to check in on him and talk about his day – and sometimes to get suspiciously specific advice – ever since he had gotten kicked out. Just like Malcolm, Reese has always admired Francis. Has sucked up every little bit of attention Francis was willing to give him, even if most of it was negative. They had both learned quickly to take the violence in stride, because it meant they could rely on him when it really mattered. And sometimes he would pet their heads and that was really nice, too.

Malcolm decides that that is probably it. It makes more sense than … anything else he can thing of. He’s done with his part of the chore and out of the kitchen, before his mom has a chance to come back in and start screaming.

He’s not even asleep yet when Reese kicks his legs to signal Malcolm to make room for him. So much for being nice.

Malcolm moves, because of course he does, and then, before he can think too hard about it, he lifts his blanket for Reese. He seems to be surprised, just standing there for a second, but is all to happy to settle down next to him. They share the pillow again, too. As they lay on their sides facing each other, neither of them say a word for a long while.

It doesn't feel like waiting for sleep though, with their eyes wide open. It's a bit weird to hold eye-contact while being so close, but the silence nonetheless is a comfortable one. Still, Malcolm is waiting for something, even though he has no idea what it could be. Maybe the other shoe.

Eventually, Reese starts messing with the cut again. The tip of his tongue darts out to feel around for it, then sweeps over it repeatedly till his lip is all glossy. It's somewhat obscene, especially at this distance. Malcolm whispers: "Why do you keep doing that?"

Reese answers without missing a beat: "Why do you?"

"What?"

"Why do you keep staring at it?"

Ah, there it is. The blush Malcolm successfully subdued during dinner is back with a vengeance.

"I do not!" Malcolm grits out. It doesn't feel very convincing considering his cheeks are so bright red, he could be used as a nightlight.

"It's not like I mind." Malcolm blinks at him. "You want to touch it?" He's not sure what they are talking about exactly. It reminds him of that feeling he sometimes gets when he decides to fetch something and he goes into another room and suddenly there is a blank place where, just a second ago, his intentions used to be.

Reese doesn't wait for an answer. Instead he fumbles for Malcolm's hand, and when he finds it under the covers grasps it with his own bigger one. Without much resistance from a flabbergasted Malcolm he leads it to his split lip and rubs over it with Malcolm's fore- and ring finger. It's soft, unexpectedly so, and Malcolm's fingers come away wet with saliva and a tiny bit of blood.

Malcolm hopes Reese doesn't notice how he shivers.

"See? No big deal." Malcolm fights off the impulse to stick his fingers in his mouth to lick them clean. It does feel like a big deal. And Reese still hasn't let go of him. 

Malcolm wriggles his sweaty hand out of his brother's grip and wipes it off on his pyjama bottoms, blood, saliva and all.

"Why is it bleeding?"

"Oh, you know, I peeled off the scab. I like how it stings a little," Reese answers, then licks his lips almost subconsciously. "Is that weird?" 

Reese sounds so unsure about himself. It makes Malcolm realize his own embarrassment has already calmed down.

"Maybe. But that's okay."

  
There is another long silence before Malcolm reaches for Reese – who appears to go completely still – on his own volition, grips him gently by the chin and runs his thumb over his bottom lip again. Only when he feels Reese take in a sharp breath, he let's go of him. "I think I'm a bit weird, too."

Reese nods at that.

This is a secret, Malcolm knows. He has allowed Reese inside his space and now they share a secret. It feels easy, comforting even.

He doesn't know what kind of secret it is though. A dangerous one, of that he's sure. One that should not be dragged into the daylight. One he hopes Dewey doesn't open his eyes and turn over to see.

By now, he regrets pulling his hand away from Reese. He feels silly (mostly just silly) about it. It reminds him of his first day of school, when their mom had to cover someone's shift and didn't have the time to accompany him. When Reese took him the whole way and didn't let go of his hand once. They both pretended to hate it at the time, had scowled at each other as soon as they had their palms back to themselves, but it had made Malcolm feel safe and the whole day much less scary. And if he's confident about one thing, it is that Reese likes to make sure that he's protected.

It doesn’t matter though that Malcolm doesn’t have it him to be daring a second time, because they've always been good at reading each other. Reese just takes his hand without asking and holds it in the space between them. And that's how they finally fall asleep, with their fingers laced together and their breath mingling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> scab-peeler rights! also, reese having self-harming tendencies? fucking canon. my boy likes it when it hurts a little.


	4. Chapter 4

  
The next afternoon finds Reese and Malcolm watching Cops together again. It's a rerun, but not a rerun of the episodes they watched last time, so it's entertaining enough. They are not speaking, not about the night before and not about the fact that there really is no need to sit this close together when it's only the two of them sharing the couch. At some point Reese wordlessly left for the kitchen and came back with two sodas, one of which he pressed into Malcolm's hand. When he sat back down, he aligned his legs with Malcolm's and that was that. Malcolm was so surprised about the unprecedented prudence that he didn't move away, which would have usually been his first instinct.

Two bulky cops are throwing the single mom to the ground that they have caught with some unspecified narcotics as Malcolm opens his can of coke to inspect the contents. They smell and look normal to him. He's considering going to the kitchen to get a glass he can pour the soda into, just to be sure, when Reese murmurs: "I didn't do anything to it. It's just cola." He isn’t even looking at Malcolm, merely sipping his own drink and unconsciously wincing as the violence on the TV screen starts to escalate. Malcolm is still skeptical but decides to give it a try. It does taste and feel like normal cola, too, so Reese is probably telling the truth. That or it’s a slow acting poison.

Malcolm deposits the can on the coffee table and mumbles a “thank you” Reese’s way who just nods. On Reese’s right knee, directly next to Malcolm’s left one, lays Reese’s hand, palm up. Malcolm stares at it, flashing back to last night, a panic rolling over him like a suffocating avalanche only for one second but so intensely that it leaves him short of breath. He only realizes that he must have been staring at the innocuous extremity (at least as innocuous as anything attached to Reese can ever be) for some time, when Reese wriggles his fingers. Malcolm glances up at Reese’s face again, but as far as he can tell, his brother is still enthralled by the TV.

He swallows against the heart in his throat. Does this mean he wants him to … Probably not, that would be super weird, right?

Exactly like he expected it’s different like this. With the sun shining through the windows and Dewey somewhere in the backyard, awake and possibly coming back inside any minute. Just like their mom and dad who are due to come home to bitch at them for watching TV instead of doing their homework or taking care of household chores.

The cops show off the pills they’ve found on the woman who is now crying somewhere in the background when Malcolm takes the possibly offered hand into his own very, very sweaty one. In the corner of his eye he can see Reese flashing him a look before quickly turning back to the show. The thought that this must be what a first date would feel like crosses his mind and the tension leaves his body in a half-relieved half-alarmed chuckle.

“What?” Reese wants to know, sounding aggressive. Defiant? Maybe.

“Nothing,” Malcolm answers, giving Reese’s hand a squeeze he hopes translates to reassurance. His palm gets even clammier and also uncomfortably warm, but they still hold hands during the whole of the patronizing monologue the pig gives to the clearly unreceptive woman.

When the credits crawl across the screen, they are still in the same position and Malcolm is at an absolute loss for what to do next – like it isn't the most normal thing in the world to simply keep sitting in front of the TV all day even if there isn't anything on.

He hears Reese taking in a huge breath like he's about to say something, when the backdoor slams shut with a loud clank. They fly apart immediately, moving to opposite ends of the couch.

There is a commercial playing now that Malcolm can't really see even though he keeps his eyes firmly trained on the TV. He feels like he just ran a marathon.

Dewey is blubbering in the kitchen while noisily making his way through the cabinets, but stops when Reese barks at him. Malcolm takes this as his cue to leave (or flee). Only when he's out on the street he decides to go over to Stevie's, where there's only gonna be sugarless treats and good comic books and offensively boring video games. No Reese, no inappropriate thoughts, nothing to worry about.

  
Stevie is surprised to find him at his front door (or maybe he's making that weird face at him because Malcolm has delivered himself to his doorstep with a strained smile and no answers to his questions about why he's there or if something's wrong). He lets him in anyway and they go and busy themselves in Stevie's room, playing several very boring games from Stevie’s games compendium. It's just as well to Malcolm who has had enough excitement for today. 

Stevie kicks one of Malcolm’s tokens off the board when his mother comes in with snacks and a smile about as forced as the one Malcolm had been wearing.

The two share the food (apple slices, grapes, crackers) in silence for a while, then Stevie asks: “So … what’s up?” 

One of the slices is already turning brown. It’s completely unnecessary but Malcolm breaks it in two, making fruit juice spray across his fingers before putting both of the pieces in his mouth.

“It’s Reese.”

“Oh, what … has he done … now?”

‘Oh, you know, he’s been insisting on crawling into my bed and last night we fell asleep holding hands and it was fucking great actually’ somehow doesn’t feel like something Malcolm is allowed to say out loud.

He opts for: “He’s been nice lately. It’s weird.” 

“Nice? That sounds … perilous.” Malcolm checks Stevie’s face for sarcasm, but he seems to mean it sincerely. He eats another cracker. Not nearly salty enough.

“He’s probably … up to something,” Stevie continues and Malcolm doesn’t like that idea. If he’s honest with himself, which he seldom dares to be, whatever has been going on, it has started to make him … happy? No, wait, it’s way too confusing of a situation and Malcolm is way to malcontent of a person for that one to fit. Either way, Stevie is suggesting that Reese has been trying to lure him into a false sense of security. And if that has been his plan, it certainly has worked.

When it’s getting dark outside Malcolm decides to leave for home. By now all his family members should be back and he expects it to be easy to avoid Reese (and his hands. Lips. Eyes.). Stevie accompanies him to the front door and sends him off with a reminder to watched out for himself. In that moment the completely insane, most likely self-destructive part of himself urges him to tell Stevie what’s been happening, starting with the first cold night and ending with this afternoon. Instead he grits his teeth, puts on his jacket and makes his exit with a nod and a wave.

  
"Malcolm, where have you been?!" A cheerful Hal greets him at the door, clad in a pink chequered button-down shirt with embroideries across his chest and sparkly tassels hanging off each shoulder. In combination with his blue jeans it makes him look like a flamboyant cowboy.

"Dad, what the hell are you wearing?"

"What, this?" Hal looks down on his clothes and then waves at Malcolm in a gesture of faux bashfulness. "Just a little something I treated myself to. You are looking at the future winner of the 2000 'Square Your Dance' Competition." He does a little twirl. "So I gotta look the part."

A new obsession. Of course. Sometimes Malcolm thinks his father only ever develops a fixation when there's also a fancy outfit to wear. "Sounds great, dad." Malcolm brushes past him and rolls his eyes where his father can't see.

"I'm gonna show you some of my moves after dinner! Maybe you can give me some pointers!" He calls after him.

"Leave him alone, Hal! He probably has a ton of homework to do, after he's been out gallivanting all day!"

Malcolm decides not to argue the point and Lois is too occupied with Reese to wonder about Malcolm's affability. She holds his brother by one very red ear as she keeps going on about how she can't leave him out of his sight for even a second and how she works all day to support this family. Then lots of stuff about ungratefulness while Malcolm tries to inquire what happened during his time at Stevie's by exchanging meaningful looks with Reese. It doesn't work.

He doesn't have to speculate for long though. Past the spectacle, through the kitchen window, he can see Dewey, lit up by the dim light of the back patio and hosing himself off. Malcolm's jaw drops when he realizes he has literally been tarred and feathered.

"Jesus Christ," he mumbles under his breath, and then has to stop himself from laughing when he looks at Reese who's grinning at him through the pain, the split in his lip barely visible by now. He has kept his hands occupied with Dewey (and with Malcolm).

  
It takes another hour before Dewey is clean and allowed back in the house. During dinner Hal keeps them all entertained by vividly describing the weird people he met at the square dance competition and who he now all considers his enemies. Only one of them is his true nemesis though, the man who laughed at him when he tried his first steps (and who also mocked his clothes, which might have a connection to what he's wearing now).

Afterwards Malcolm does sit down to take care of his homework (it was his plan anyway, but Lois kept pestering him about it so he starts by unnecessarily slamming his books on the desk). It takes him two hours to finish everything and it’s exhausting. He’s kind of grateful though because it means he’s too drained to do much thinking as he gets ready for bed.

  
Two hours later, his brother is there again and Malcolm’s eyes are wide open. Reese is pressing the whole length of his body against his back, chest against shoulder blades, groin against butt, Reese's longer legs against the hollow of his knees. He has thrown one of his arms over Malcolm who’s heart is threatening to beat of his chest. He can’t really say how long they’ve been laying like this or even how long his brain has been back online. All he knows is that it’s the weirdest feeling, his whole body pleasantly warm, his brother’s breath tickling the short hairs at the nape of his neck.

Is Reese even awake? Maybe Malcolm shouldn’t try and find out. It might be best to just ignore the situation and pretend like he never caught Reese _cuddling_ him in his sleep.

But Malcolm just can’t help himself. He has never been one to let sleeping dogs lie.

“Reese?”

In a sluggish voice Reese answers: “Yeah?”

What Malcolm really wants to ask is what the hell Reese thinks he’s doing. But that is way too scary. So he asks the first thing that comes to mind instead.

“Why did you do that to Dewey?”

Reese scoffs against the back of his neck and Malcolm's skin breaks out in goosebumps.

“He wouldn’t shut up about the new dog the neighbors bought. Apparently he has been spying on them through the hole in the fence. I'm pretty sure he has a plan to steal it. Or dognap it. Very annoying.”

Reese moves so his forearm lays across Malcolm's chest and then pulls him even closer.

"And I was bored after you were gone." Reese says it all casual, like it's not anyhing, and normally it wouldn't be, but hearing it while being embraced like this makes Malcolm kind of want to cry, and that's pretty scary, too.

"Where did you get the tar?"

"Oh my God, I didn't use tar, don't you know how hot that would have been? Probably would've burned his skin clean off." Reese chuckles and Malcolm feels kind of idiotic because he's supposed to be smart one here.

He tries and fails not to let his embarrassment slip into his voice when he asks: "Okay, but what did you use then?"

"Molasses. I just needed something sticky."

"And where did you get the … you know what? Never mind." He sighs, exasperated. 

He remembers his conversation with Stevie, his friend's warnings about being careful. And then dismisses them. He still can't wrap his head around what Reese has been doing (when can he ever) but he also can't remember the last time he felt this safe, warm and comfy. He just wants to revel in it. Please.

  
He doesn't realize it when he's falling back asleep but he's awake again before the sun is fully up. The room is tinged in purple-orange light, his thoughts are lethargic and something hard is pressing against his backside. Reese has an erection.

A startled scream forms in his throat as soon as comprehension kicks in, but the shock is thankfully keeping him silent. He now feels trapped in the arm that Reese still holds him with. He struggles against it, trying to move away without thinking and waking Reese up in the process.

He can hear a startle "Wha-", before Reese moves backwards, but, tangled in the sheets, falls down on the floor. He curses. Malcolm checks on Dewey – still asleep – and exhales in relief. He doesn't dare and turn over to look at Reese. This isn't happening. He isn't actually here at all. So he just lays there stock still, playing dead, holding his breath and all.

There's a moment of silence. Another one. And one more, before Reese picks himself up off of the floor. Malcolm can't see him but he can feel him hovering next to his bed. He doesn’t move a muscle, his spine a tightly pulled string. Reese runs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have never watched an episode of Cops but I'm assuming that that's how it goes.
> 
> Happy sunday, you little ghouls!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look at that, the rating (and the tags) have been updated ;)

Malcolm leaves the house with a headache pounding in his temples, not only because he spend the last hour before he had to get up in the arms of a panic attack so bad there was nothing he could do except focus on his breathing, he was also kissed by Reese’s fist over breakfast for “looking at him funny”.

Yeah, right.

His hand flies to his lip where the skin has split, the color of Reese’s blood still fresh in his mind, more pink than red after mixing with saliva, coating his fingertips. He presses against the wound to chase away the images and winces at the pain. His face is gonna bruise over the next few hours, he knows.

He makes it through the morning classes without anyone inquiring about his terrible mood. (Everyone is busy planning the next big opportunity to make Malcolm’s life hell: a rendition of “Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” produced by the Krelboyne class and performed in front of the whole school.) When he washes his hands in the boy’s bathroom before lunch his lip is fat and the skin next to it has turned a dark purple. He sighs at his reflection.

The headache is mostly gone but he can feel his pulse throbbing where his face is swollen, hot and uncomfortable. He fights against the memory of Reese burning against the flesh of his ass, fails, watches the heat crawl up his neck and settle on his face. He splashes it with cold water, his collar drinking up the droplets that run down his skin.

Oh God, what is he gonna do?

His hands grip the sink which creaks dangerously in response.

What _can_ he do? Nothing.

Reese will calm down eventually. He will get over this. And he will probably stop visiting him in the dead of night like an unholy apparition. It’s done.

Which is good, actually. That would mean Malcolm could get back to his prior eight hours of uninterrupted sleep. And he would have way more space to sprawl. Dewey and him could be twin starfishes. He’s relieved, honestly.

Someone should tell his face.

At their usual table Malcolm opens his crumpled paper bag amid his group of Krelboynes. The sandwich he fishes out looks like someone has squashed it between their hands, the jelly leaking out each side. Great. He drops it back into the bag with sticky fingers, forms the whole thing into a ball and throws it at the nearest garbage bin with way too much force. It ricochets off the brick wall and lands somewhere outside off Malcolm’s visual field.

While Lloyd, Kevin, Dabney and Cynthia are preoccupied with a discussion about the homoerotic subtext in Edward Albee’s first play “The Zoo Story” Stevie is eyeing Malcolm.

“What?” Malcolm snaps at him.

“Told you so.” He sounds a bit smug about it which irritates Malcolm even further.

“Yeah, John Forbes Nash, you need to be really big-brained to formulate such a precise prognosis. Reese punching me in the face, who could have seen that one coming.”

“He also seems … to have done … a number on … your lunch. … Don’t think … that means … I’m sharing.”

Stevie probably would have given him a few bites from his tofu burger or some of his tomato salad if Malcolm had been less insufferable, and that knowledge frustrates him even further.

“Fine, whatever,” he spits. He stands up and yanks his backpack over his right shoulder. What’s the point of sitting around with these assholes anyway if he doesn’t have anything to eat? As he stomps away he thinks he can hear Cynthia call after him but ignores her.

He would have played hooky for the rest of the day if Herkabe had not caught him the minute he stepped off the school grounds. Malcolm finds his face as punchable as ever but has to settle for kicking his chair before sitting back down in the classroom. The way the sudden loud noise makes Dabney jump however is very satisfying.

He half dozes, half eye rolls his way to the final bell, lucky, that Herkabe not only didn’t give him any detention but is also at least as content ignoring Malcolm as Malcolm is ignoring him. He can only imagine what would happen if he called on him. Probably nothing coming out of his mouth except bizarre screeching.

As he saunters home an old friend joins him – dread. With every step he takes it gets worse, until at the very last intersection he just stops and stands. Straight ahead he can already see their house. His hand moves to touch his face again, palpating the abused skin while he thinks. He could go left, back into town, lose his last coins at the arcade. Get rejected by the cute girl that works there, who always chews atomic green bubble gum and bends over so you can see her bra when she gives out tokens.

But that's for normal teenagers. Boys that don’t curl up with their emotionally disturbed brothers when no one is looking. Boys that don’t know what the morning wood of their brothers feels like.

He cringes, then continues walking, straightforward.

Malcolm is so relieved to find the house empty that he has to sit down, light-headed. He knows he should use this startling opportunity for alone-time to be productive. There might be blessed silence now, but he can already feel the chaos brewing on the horizon – and that's not just his anxiety speaking. But he's just so fucking tired. God, has he ever been anything _but_ tired? He can't remember.

He lets himself fall back on his bed, his feet still touching the floor. He tries to focus on the way the worn fabric feels beneath his fingers, count the number of holes in the ceiling above him when the thoughts start wafting at the edges of his vision. Maybe he can shoo them away before the threat of actually experiencing his emotions can become a reality? That's the plan but of course it does not work. He has tried so hard to resist all day and now with the silence not feeling so blessed after all they finally overwhelm him.

The shock, ripping his dull brain from the comforting depth of sleep is right back in the forefront of his mind. Reese's cock branding him as disgusting. Despicable. Utterly vile.

His own arousal, burning him from the inside.

Malcolm hides his face in his hands. He groans unhappily and embarrassed as he turns over on his side into almost a fetal position. He lets one hand wander across his abdomen and then down to pop the button of his jeans open. He feels dizzy. Like the blood accruing in his crotch is rushing down there directly from his brain. He whimpers after the zipper is open, giving his hardening cock more space.

As he takes himself in hand he pretends things went differently. Pretends like he didn't move away in a panic but rubbed his ass on what Reese was offering instead. It's a dirty thought that fills him with so much shame that it seems impossible to hold it all in, like the feeling will inevitably spill out of him, soil him, this bed, this whole room.

He pumps himself to fullness but doesn't dare look at what he's doing. His eyes are kept squinted shut as the hand moves hard and fast, his mind supplying him with a stream of imagery, a depraved slideshow. Reese rutting against him, pushing him down on his knees, slapping his face with his hard dick. What finally makes him come though is the memory of this morning, when Reese, his face an angry grimace, had punched him so hard he nearly fell off his chair.

He's fucked. Truly and completely fucked. He has been before this but he's definitely now, with the evidence coating his hands. And also a bit of the sheet.

No more plausible deniability.

His legs are gooey when he gets up and goes to the bathroom next door to clean himself. He tries to detach himself from the situation as best he can, let's his body work like his head is just along for the ride. Water on, water off, towel, putting his softening dick back into his pants.

The mirror he avoids.

The shame doesn't leave him. Rather it gets worse, since he now also feels guilty for having … indulged. He might even be a bit scared of his family coming home. He can't imagine looking any of them in the face ever again.

Luckily the first one to arrive is Dewey who is very much busy with keeping hold of the shaggy dog squirming against his chest.

“Is that the neighbor's dog?” Malcolm asks, deadpan.

“No.” Dewey is an incredibly bad liar, even for a child.

Malcolm stares at him and Dewey stares back, still struggling with the animal.

“Her name is Foxy Brown.”

Malcolm eyebrows vanish in his hair. That sounds like someone (Reese) has allowed Dewey to watch late night TV with them again.

He can clearly see that the animal is male and he also knows its name is Hunter but he welcomes the distraction.

“How are you gonna play this?” He asks.

Dewey finally puts Foxy/Hunter down on the floor – it makes a beeline for their parents bedroom immediately – and retrieves a packet of food coloring from his backpack. He grins a confident grin and tells Malcolm: “I’m gonna dye his fur.”

“Foolproof.” There is sarcasm dripping from every syllable. “And mom and dad? What are you gonna do about them?”

“They’re gonna learn to love him.”

Not before Dewey manages to kill the dog, probably. Malcolm scoffs, but Dewey has already turned his back on him to follow the commotion.

Malcolm decides that it would be best to do his school work, considering he feels at least a little bit lighter and doesn’t have any interest in getting on Herkabe’s bad side again tomorrow. He spreads his stuff out on the kitchen table though, instead of his desk as he normally would. He doesn’t want to be in that room right now, where his ejaculate is crusting his duvet. (He is a teenage boy so his way to deal with the situation was turn the blanket over.)

It's already evening when Reese struts into the kitchen. By then Malcolm has finished the lion’s share of the classwork and has successfully defended his place at the table from his mother, who is now cooking around him. (Hal his home, too, but has already retreated to the garage to practice his dance moves.)

Reese feigns looking Malcolm in the eye when he passes him on his way to steal some of the cheese their mother has grated, but it’s obviously off, like his gaze is actually fixed on his temple.

Malcolm's attention is grabbed immediately by the dark pattern of hickeys that adorn Reese’s neck. There are four, no five, standing out in stark contrast to Reese's skin. As his brother leans against sideboard and stuffs his face with mozzarella Malcolm crinkles the grimy table cloth in his hands.

Reese clearly notices Malcolm staring. He reaches for the marks, almost reflexively, a few shreds of cheese falling to the floor. In the middle of the self-conscious action he stops himself and lets the hand drop back down to his side. He smirks, now meeting Malcolm’s eyes after all.

“Reese! What is that?!” The gloating expression bleeds from Reese's face. Their mother rushes over to clutch his head and bend it to the side for closer examination.

“What did you do?!” She demands in a shrill voice that must be uncomfortable to have so close to his ear. Reese didn’t think this through apparently. “I-” She doesn’t let him answer. “Oh, I’ve had enough of you!” She turns around to Malcolm to throw him an angry look. “Both of you! Go to your room!” The indignation at being treated unfairly is quickly overshadowed by the alarm at the prospect of spending time alone with Reese.

“But, mom-”

“Mom, nothing! Out! Out! Out!” She accentuates her outburst by shoving Reese away from her and stomping her foot.

Being left with no other choice Malcolm clenches his fists and marches to their bedroom, hearing Reese's heavy footsteps follow. He's en route to his bed but then remembers hotly what happened there in the early morning hours, _this afternoon_ , and makes a sudden right turn to sit down by the desk. Reese slams the door behind them and then there is silence.

Malcolm fidgets with some of the papers on the table (doodles and drawings Dewey has strewn about, most of them of the freaking dog) but the atmosphere is so charged, it feels oppressive.

Reese still stands by the door, one feet propped up against it in a show of casualness (the white knuckled hand on the door handle betrays him).

“You visit Anna again?” Malcolm asks in a voice that is more steady than he expected it to be.

Reese lets go of the door and steps into the room with crossed arms.

“Oh yeah, baby, she’s been all over me all day.”

Malcolm rolls his eyes.

“What? It’s true!” Reese rubs the bruises that confirm his declaration, but to Malcolm it looks like he wants to scrape them off.

“You’re pathetic.” Malcolm says, because he’s pretty sure he knows what’s going on in Reese’s pea brain and can’t stop himself from calling him out – even though he also knows that that can only lead them down a dark and twisted road.

Reese’s jaw is clenched as he moves across the room in big strides. Malcolm gets up from his chair at the approaching predator, his blood singing in anticipation of a fight. Violence is easy. Violence he’s used to. Violence he can deal with.

And sure enough, when Reese reaches him he seizes him by the collar of his shirt. He crunches the fabric till it cuts into Malcolm’s skin, making it harder to breath. (That’s what he’s telling himself at any rate. He doesn’t like the idea that having Reese this close again might contribute to the shortness of his breath.)

“At least someone wants me.” Reese asserts, pulling Malcolm up to his eye level by the front of his shirt. “I don’t know where you get off calling me pathetic, seeing as you are an arrogant loser that no one really likes.”

This is the moment. There have been many such moments in Malcolm's life so far, but it’s seldom as crystal clear to him in the moment itself, the importance of shutting the fuck up.

But, alas.

He tries to push Reese back by his shoulders but he’s like a wall before him. In lieu of physical strength he puts venom in his voice to protect himself: “Dude, I’m pretty sure you’re the one who wants me.”

Reese blanches and let’s go of him instantly. Malcolm collapses back down on the chair. He feels like he accidentally ripped something open, the blood rushing out and Malcolm unable to keep his insides where they belong.

Reese looks as though he’s about to puke. He takes two frantic steps back, then one forward again, while Malcolm is gripped by a cold shudder that runs through his body at the knowledge that he was right! Oh my God, he was fucking right!

He was right. After the fact makes itself a home somewhere behind his rips, taking root in his blood stream, now an origin of warmth spreading out across the whole of his body, he says: “So, are you gonna do something about that?”


	6. Chapter 6

For a moment Reese just gawks at him, eyes wide, face like chalk. It is the most terrifying thing and Malcolm wishes he could reclaim his words, shove them back into his mouth and down his throat. (Maybe he would choke on them and die, wouldn't that be a relief.)

The moment stretches and stretches till it finally snaps.

Reese is on him so fast, he nearly does choke, on his own spit. He puts both of his hands on Malcolm's chest and gives him a hefty shove, almost making him topple over.

Malcolm gasps and reflexively reaches out for something to hold onto, his stomach doing a somersault. His hands clasp the sleeves of Reese's worn out shirt, pulling him close as the chair falls forward. When the front legs make contact with the floor again their foreheads and noses smack into each other. Reese recoils, then slaps him, hard.

Malcolm can feel his wound breaking open again as his head snaps to the side. A thin trickle of blood runs down his chin. He turns to meet Reese's eyes, deliberately. A dare.

Reese is panting, as is Malcolm, every intake of breath a fight. He moves to wipe away the blood with the back of his hand but Reese stops him by catching him by the forearm.

His grip is bruising and uncomfortable, each digit distinctly perceptible as they press into Malcolm's skin. Reese slowly drags him up by his arm, up and forward, until Malcolm has no choice but to follow his lead and get up from his chair. It's agonizing, the pain in his arm, the way his heart beats too fast, the manner in which Reese's stares him down, like he's about to swallow him whole.

Then, suddenly, Reese yanks him forward.

Their lips not so much meet as they bump into each other. It's not a good kiss by any frame of reference (though Malcolm technically doesn't have one as he's never been kissed before). Their teeth clack and Malcolm huffs a startled breath directly into Reese's mouth. He can taste the metallic bitterness of his own blood that is now being smeared across his skin as Reese angles his head to better align their noses. 

It's not a good kiss. It's a perfect one.

When Reese retreats Malcolm's eyes pop open immediately, making him only then realize that he closed them to begin with. He swallows, his throat like parchment, an audible click.

Reese is looking at him, pupils blown, and he still has Malcolm by the arm, holds it up in the air like Malcolm is some kind of doll. As if there where anywhere else for him to go. As if there where anywhere else he’d rather be.

A little bit of Malcolm’s blood is coating Reese’s lower lip, starting to dry into a thin film that crinkles with his facial expressions.

When he notices Reese moving he involuntarily flinches. But all Reese does is put his thumb on Malcolm's bottom lip and faintly press down.

"Say uncle," he murmurs, making Malcolm wrinkle his forehead in confusion. Reese slides the digit inside and Malcolm's mouth forms around it in a wordless _Oh_ , his face turning a deep crimson. 'It fits perfectly,' he thinks to himself, amazed, followed by 'Yes, of course it does, it's a fucking thumb.’ He’s unwilling to analyze what the strange thought had meant exactly.

He gives the thumb a tiny exploratory lick, just to see how it feels, how it tastes (a little bit salty, presumably from the Mozzarella), before letting it lay, heavy on his tongue.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Reese rasps. He looks at him like a man drowning and it's kind of reassuring, the knowledge that he isn't the only one who feels like he’s running out of air.

Malcolm is disoriented, and restless in a way he can not explain, but the emotion that is the most overbearing is the ache, clasping him even firmer than Reese.

An image rises to the surface, him sucking on Reese's thumb, Reese shoving all of his fingers into his mouth one after the other until Malcolm sputters and gags.

But that's a bit to much for now, for them, for his brain to handle, so he quickly stomps it down, resigns himself to just feeling the weight of it. Basking in the way Reese has zeroed in on his mouth.

Eventually (after a few seconds, one minute, three years, who’s to say), Reese clears his throat and lowers Malcolm's arm to his side. He also, to Malcolm’s disappointment, removes his thumb, but stops to swipe the spit-slick digit over Malcolm's blood-crusted lip till it's all wet again. When he sticks it into his own mouth to casually lick it clean, just like Malcolm wanted to do with Reese's blood a few nights ago, he hums.

Malcolm quietly whimpers.

To hide his self-consciousness and get his skin to stop tingling and prickling he rubs his arm where he's sure Reese has freshly marked him up. At that moment reality snaps harshly back into focus, predictably, with a high-pitched screech coming from the kitchen.

"I think dinner's ready," Reese jokes, his voice rough.

"Or maybe Mom's found the dog," Malcolm answers.

"What do- Oh, Dewey has carried out his plan already?"

"I don't think the whole thing has been very intricate."

"Intricate?"

"Complex. I'm pretty sure he just went over there and took it."

"Oh, Dewey." Reese sighs. "He still has so much to learn."

Malcolm, despite himself, despite everything, laughs, which makes Reese smile in turn, and Malcolm feels suddenly, wonderfully, at ease.

"How's your face?", Reese asks after a beat, his expression confessing to his guilty conscience. Which Malcolm appreciates for its rarity.

"It's fine," he says, before realizing that, actually, his whole face hurts like motherfucker. He must look like … someone who met Reese and didn't move out of the way fast enough. Shit.

"I messed you up pretty badly … "

"I like it when you mess me up." Malcolm avoids Reese's eyes as he admits it. "Sometimes."

"Fuck," Reese growls. "You can't say shit like that."

"I can say whatever I want." Malcolm tells his nervously shuffling feet.

"No, you're gonna make me … " Reese groans. "I _like_ messing you up."

Malcolm can't help but scoff. "Yeah, I know that. Messing people up is, like, your whole thing. Your field of expertise."

"No. I mean I _like_ it. It's a", Reese appears to search for the right words, gulps, "you-specific thing."

Huh. It seems like there are more secrets to be had and they don't get any less scary.

"So, that's good then," Malcolm decides, resolutely, feigning self-assurance he absolutely does not have.

"No, it's not good!" Reese yells and Malcolm urgently shushes him, nodding towards the door.

"It's creepy! And weird!"

"I thought we agreed on that one already," Malcolm says in an exaggerated whisper. "We're both weird and it's fine."

Reese blinks at him, then adds in a very small voice: "I'm gonna tear you apart, you know that, right? If you don't fight back, I will tear you apart."

Ha! As if that were something Reese had to worry about. "Who said anything about not fighting back." Malcolm underlines his point by gleefully punching Reese in the shoulder.

Reese huffs out a breath, then narrows his eyes. He swiftly grabs Malcolm's wrists and tugs at them till Malcolm holds one hand up in the air on each side of his chest. The thrill of sudden anticipation rushes up Malcolm’s spine and makes him grin wildly. Reese walks him backwards faster than his feet can handle and he almost stumbles before he bangs into the wall behind him, his wrists pinned by Reese's hands.

They are both out of breath again.

"And besides I know you like it, too. When it hurts a little," Malcolm asserts.

Reese blushes at that, honest to God blushes, and it's so precious Malcolm would lean forward and kiss him again (or maybe bite him) if Reese didn't use his whole weight to restrain him.

"It's not even our biggest problem," Reese mumbles, and what a way to put that. Malcolm doesn't even dare to glance in the general direction of the wild animal that is the elephant in the room. Especially not now with the pressure on his wrists exactly perfect, the heat pooling behind his navel. Reese so close he can smell him.

He has no words of reassurance because he isn't good at stuff like this and in any case he knows this is gross and they are gross, totally irredeemable, so he wouldn't even know where to start. What he can do though is be dismissive for the sake of his boner.

"I think our biggest _problem_ is that you got me all helpless, yet you’re just standing there."

Reese makes an unhappy, garbled noise in the back of his throat before dropping his head forward on Malcolm's shoulder. While giving Malcolm's wrists a hard squeeze, he whines: "Why am I like this?" Malcolm rolls his eyes, tired of this dance. He will let himself have this, for now.

He buries his nose in Reese’s hair and, effectively hiding in it, he confesses: "I like that you are like this." To make Reese understand how much he does, in fact, _like it_ he rolls his hips forward, rubbing his cock on his brothers crotch.

To Malcolm's delight Reese responds with a long string of expletives and a wanton kiss, wet and sloppy and hot and just as perfect as the first one, no, even better, because this one has Reese licking into his mouth.

When they break apart Reese has boxed him in so close Malcolm is almost completely unable to move and, oh boy, does that ever work for him. He can still feel Reese’s breath warm on his lips, he's knees so weak that he would most likely collapse to the floor if it weren't for Reese holding him up.

"We should … we should really stop this right now, before … you know, anyone comes in." Reese says. Malcolm is inclined to agree even though his teenage hormones are begging him to take this over the finish line.

"Probably need some cold water then," Malcolm suggests. Reese seems to hesitate for an instant, then kisses him one more time, soft and easy, like Malcolm is something delicate. Malcolm tries his best not to let on how it makes him swoon as Reese finally let's go of him and takes a step back.

"Okay, I'm just gonna …," he gestures toward the door. Reese nods and shrugs at the same time in a combined gesture of ‘yeah, whatever’.

"Right." Malcolm awkwardly leaves for the bathroom where he’s greeted with a frankly horrifying reflection. The swelling of his cheek is now even more prevalent and the dried blood only emphasizes the still dark bruise. "Oh mom's gonna kill him," he whispers to himself, then louder and over his shoulder: "Mom's gonna kill you!"

"I know!" Reese cries, but Malcolm doesn't know if he's talking about the injuries or … the other thing.

His wrists and right arm are unblemished but he's pretty sure that in a few hours he’ll be able to press his own fingertips into Reese’s purple imprints. Indulge in the memory.

  
Now, that line of thinking will not help get rid of his boner. For a second he toys with the notion of taking care of it the 'natural' way, but now that he’s calmed down a bit (and Reese doesn’t have his hands on him anymore) he's hyperaware of the goings-on in the kitchen and the possibility of being called to dinner at any moment

Cold water it is.

After washing his face and winning the fight against his base instincts, he returns to their room to collect Reese who's already waiting for him by the door.

"Let's go,” Malcolm proposes.

Along the way to the kitchen, in the corridor, where no one else can see them yet, Reese takes Malcolm's right wrist in his hand one more time, a fleeting ghost of the crushing touch from before, making Malcolm's heartbeat flutter. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whispers softly* hey kids, do you like violence? 😳😳


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *arrives late with incest*

After Malcolm shows his face at the dinner table justice is swift. Reese gets grounded for three weeks and Lois is absolutely disinterested in any sort of explanation of what transpired when she turned her back. Malcolm wouldn't have known what to say anyway so he keeps himself as inconspicuous as possible. Reese does attempt to defend himself at which Malcolm's ears prick up, nervous to find out what Reese will come up with, but their mom is quick to shut him down. She hands Malcolm a pack of frozen peas for his face and then they all sit down for one of their very loud, very normal family dinners.

There is no mention of the dog, which makes Malcolm seriously worried about where the thing is currently residing, both in the 'has it already strangled itself with the ill-considered contraption Dewey has restrained it with?' and the 'is it currently destroying my most prized possessions?' way. Dewey is the picture of innocence, smile up, elbows off the table and answering his parents with pleasant intonation. When Malcolm eyes him with an expression that he hopes transports his feeling of 'Really, dude?' he doesn't let himself get deterred.

Lois' day has been overshadowed by some guy that had hovered around the store for hours and whom she had suspected of being a very cowardly shoplifter. After trailing him for most of her shift and even giving up her break to catch him in the act, she had to find out that he actually had been more interested in the new and, in Craig's words, 'hot', lady behind the cheese counter than any of the merchandise.

Hal uses her anecdote to lecture all of them on how one should never condemn people too rashly and then segueing into an update on his dance competition, where he is now dance partners with his aforementioned nemesis. Or he aspires to be at least. After being grudgingly paired together during training they had discovered their compatibility, but an old rule prohibits two men to compete together in the couple’s part of the actual event. Hal is outraged about this medieval attitude, especially as he is sure that they would win. The combination of Hal's natural talent and Michael's competent hip swing is a force to be reckoned with, he assures them.

Reese sits next to Malcolm as always, his cutlery clattering loudly. He pelts Dewey with carrot pieces from his plate, antagonizes their mother at every turn, and tells their father to show the judges what’s what (most likely because he thrives on any kind of chaos, even if he doesn’t get to witness it himself). His presence is so boisterous that he would be impossible to ignore, but Malcolm steals glances at him whenever he can anyway, trying to keep a goofy smile from taking over his face.

He has a crush. He knows that this is what it feels like because he had a few of them before. On girls with long blond hair that came down to their shoulders in waves, on girls with beautiful brown eyes that they never fixed on him, on mean girls that liked to use their bigger statue to push him around. They never led to anything, so finally having his affections reciprocated feels like a whole new world is opening up to him. Just his luck, that this is how it goes. Typical. But he doesn't even have it in him to be angry. His insides are marshmallow fluff.

At the end of the day, laying in his bed, he doesn’t so much as try to fall asleep. He expects Reese to come over to him at any moment, but he’s unable to predict what’s gonna happen after that, now that he, technically, has permission to touch. And kiss. And have a hard-on if he wants to. If he said he wasn’t excited, he’d definitely be lying, but it’s scary, too, all that anticipation, trying to keep it all in.

And it’s not like anything will actually happen _happen_ with Dewey right there and their parents next door, anything of any shape. (Malcolm has … ideas though. Unspecific ones, floating around in his cerebrospinal fluid, constantly metamorphosing.) He did wash up more thoroughly than he would normally before bed, which is ridiculous, seeing Reese was with him at his worst and at his most pitiful and at his most disgusting plenty of times. (Reese always spurs him on to top himself in that regard.) Making himself presentable to a guy that has to be reminded to take his daily shower is probably a waste anyway.

It doesn’t take long before he hears the tell-tale sounds of Reese tiptoeing to his bedside. Reese’s face is shrouded in darkness but his smile is still apparent and Malcolm's heart flips over in his chest. He makes room, lifts his blanket, wordlessly, and Reese doesn’t need to be told.

Malcolm on his right side, Reese on his left they share the space, watching each other, reminiscent of the night Reese came back from Anna’s with the kiss-bitten lip that Malcolm had obsessed about so badly.

Malcolm nudges Reese’s cold feet with his own, whispers: “Hey.”

“Hey,” Reese answers and rubs his soles on Malcolm's feet to warm them up.

He pokes the purple mess that is Malcolm’s cheek, making Malcolm suck in air in a hiss, then asks: “You wanna make out for a little bit?” A nervous giggle escapes Malcolm’s mouth before he can stifle it.

“Sure,” he tells Reese, sounding so breathy and coy that it makes him cringe. Reese leans forward without much ceremony, puts his lips to where his fist had been just this morning, brutal and full of misplaced rage. He kisses him again and again from one corner of his mouth to the other, his hand finding Malcolm’s ear, covering it till all Malcolm can hear is a swooshing noise, like he’s holding a shell against it and listening for the sea.

Feeling the soft tip of Reese’s tongue, he opens up for him immediately, meets him with his own while seizing the front of Reese’s discolored shirt. Reese nips at his lower lip and it hurts so good that it makes Malcolm whine, little tears burning in the corners of his eyes.

When Reese threatens to move away Malcolm just follows to nuzzle his face into the corner of his neck. As he rubs his nose on the silky skin Reese’s playful snicker vibrates against his cheek.

Reese stretches out on his back and opens his arms for him, an invitation Malcolm happily takes. He settles half on top him and let’s go of Reese’s shirt in favor of hugging him by the waist. Reese rearranges the blankets so that Malcolm is enveloped in a warm cocoon.

He listens to Reese’s breathing, feels puffs of air on the crown of his head, his brother’s chest calmly moving up and down beneath him.

“You make me feel safe,” he confesses.

Reese wheezes. “What? How- I- I definitely never heard that one before.”

Malcolm only grips him tighter. He doesn’t know how to explain and he doesn’t care to.

Reese doesn’t probe further. He crosses his arms behind Malcolm's back and hugs him close till Malcolm falls asleep.

Being grounded for three weeks means that Reese spends all of the time he isn’t forced to be in school at home. Malcolm can almost hear the neighborhood collectively sigh in relief. At any other point in his life Malcolm would have been apprehensive at the prospect. Even in times of peace and even during the joint execution of elaborate plans or pranks Reese's presence has always been a volatile one. Malcolm’s used to the atmosphere turning sour often and without much of a warning.

Now, Reese likes to linger. From the moment Malcolm steps into the house Reese sticks to his side, trailing behind him while bad-mouthing Malcolm's friends, energetically wobbling on the other chair while Malcolm does his homework, pinching his sides while Malcolm makes himself something to eat. It would be annoying if Malcolm wasn’t so goddamn enthralled with him.

At the third day of his punishment they stumble upon the dog. It looks like Dewey had started the dyeing process at the head and either lost interest halfway through or didn't have enough product, because the dog's butt is still its natural auburn color. It doesn't look very happy, bound with a leash to a large stone Dewey must have dragged into their backyard, but at least it is alive, wagging its sad little tail when he sees them coming.

Reese drops to his knees in front of it, a cheerful smile on his face. The dog reacts with excitement, hopping up and down and increasing the wagging so much its butt moves from side to side while Reese keeps asking him if he's a good boy.

"We really should take it back over to its owner, they're probably worried," Malcolm muses.

Reese throws him an unhappy look from where he is now roughly kneading the dog's ears. "No!" he whines. He holds the dog's head in his hands to force it to look at Malcolm. "He's such a good boy! And if the neighbor still hasn't figured out that the crazy kid next door that kept on watching him through the living-room windows took his dog, he's an idiot. Finder's keepers!"

"That's not what that means."

"I found him, I'm gonna keep him!"

"And let Dewey take the fall for it."

"Oh, yes, totally."

Dewey is not equipped to take care of a living breathing thing. He has killed every single insect and animal he has brought into their house, either literally smothered it with his love or forget to take care of it after a while. But then again, it's not really Malcolm's responsibility. And the dog looks fine, doesn't it? It's only a matter of time till their mom finds out or the neighbors come a-knocking anyway.

Before Malcolm can inform Reese of his decision to not care, his brother has already started to grovel over to him on his knees, wearing an exaggerated pouty face. "Please," he says, gripping Malcolm by the front of his trousers.

Is he swooning? Malcolm feels like he's swooning.

"That's a rare sight, you begging me for something on your knees," he taunts and Reese sticks his tongue out at him.

"And it's especially weird as we both know violence works so much better on me." He prefers not to be seriously threatened, actually, but this is … fun. Flirting. Flirting with Reese.

Reese leans forward and sinks his teeth into his leg. The thick denim protects Malcolm's flesh but it still hurts, so Malcolm follows his first instinct and whacks him across the face with the back of his hand.

Silence follows. Even the dog is speechless while Malcolm waits with baited breath for Reese's reaction. But when he faces him again Reese is beaming. "Maybe we should go back inside," he proposes, the dog already forgotten. There is an unmistakable undercurrent to the words. An unspoken promise of things to come that makes Malcolm gulp.

Reese thoughtlessly uses Malcolm' body to draw himself back up on his feet, nearly causing Malcolm to tumble, and then just spins around to walk back towards their house. Malcolm and his staccato heart follow him inside.

Reese moves purposeful and only stops when he arrives at their room. Malcolm himself wavers for a moment in the door frame, trailing the scratches zigzagging the wood with his forefinger. At Reese's questioning look he pulls himself together, jitters and all, and meets him where he stands between their beds.

This is it. Something is gonna happen. Shit is about to go down, as they say. Malcolm feels winded, anxiety trying to claw it's way up his windpipe.

"What do you want to-"

Reese interrupts him by pushing him over, making him sit down heavy on Reese's mattress. "Stop thinking so much, Brainiac," he says. He gets on his knees in front of him and Malcolm's legs fall open to make room for him embarrassingly fast.

Reese’s hands go to his zipper. He opens Malcolm's jeans and has them and his underwear pooling at his calves (Malcolm almost falls off the bed with the jolt it takes) before Malcolm can even react.

They both stare down at Malcolm's cock. It's very much interested in the proceedings, already mostly hard and standing at attention.

"Look who else is a good boy," Reese mumbles, making Malcolm laugh out loud. "Oh my God, shut up!" He kicks Reese in the chest, lightly, still grinning. He doesn't know if Reese did it on purpose or if that would be an overestimation of his brother's people skills, but Malcolm feels more relaxed now, like he has exhaled his apprehension with his laughter. He resolves to simply lean back on his hands and wait for Reese to do whatever he plans on doing.

Reese unties his shoes, takes off his rumpled clothes, then runs his fingers up his legs. He lays his palms flat on the insides of Malcolm’s thighs, left and right to where his cock is filling up with blood till its aching. His femoral artery throbs under Reese’s hands as he caresses him softly and spreads him even further. For easy access. Malcolm swallows.

"Say uncle,” Reese half asks, half warns, giving Malcolm a moment to object. Malcolm wouldn’t dream of it.

Reese takes his cock and lifts it from Malcolm's belly then guides it into his mouth. He can only watch in awe as Reese takes it in as far as it will go, promptly hollowing his cheeks and sucking on it like he actually knows what he’s doing. He holds it by the root while beginning to bob up and down, eager and impatient, driving Malcolm to frantically grab for the bed sheet and hold on for dear life. Over and over he traces the underside with his delicate tongue, up to the frenulum, then playing with the slit, saliva forming on the edges of his mouth. Malcolm is vaguely aware that he’s moaning dangerously loud, can hear himself making choked off little noises, but it's so much so fast and it feels so good that he is powerless to stop himself. When Reese meets his eyes from where he sits on the floor, submissive and content in giving Malcolm nothing but pleasure, it feels like Malcolm missed a step walking down a staircase, like an unexpected free-fall.

He’s already getting close, sweat shimmering on his burning skin, lungs heaving. He wants to bury his hands in Reese’s short hair and hold him there but he doesn’t know if he’s allowed and he doesn’t know how to form words, so he let’s himself fall backwards instead, clenches his eyes closed as Reese takes him in impossibly deeper, his mouth wet and hot and absolutely perfect.

Reese's left hand is still laying on the vulnerable flesh of his inner thigh. He presses into it so hard now it hurts, probably to keep Malcolm from straight up fucking into his mouth, and Malcolm is pretty sure that that is what finally kicks him over the edge, the sharp sting of Reese's nails, the domineering force of his clutch. Malcolm's breath stutters and dies in his throat as he comes, stopping him from completing the desperate cry that had formed in his chest.

Afterwards he’s a shaky mess. The welcome relief of an empty mind leaves him fast, his exposed skin cold and clammy. Reese is moving. He gives his thighs a gentle pad, then suddenly towers above him with raised eyebrows.

“That was fast,” he mocks. Malcolm pulls his shoulders towards his ears and shivers. He abruptly realizes that he came inside Reese’s mouth. Did he swallow his jizz? Holy shit.

Reese doesn’t say anything. He turns around and Malcolm feels so exceptionally drained he doesn't try to find out where he’s going.

Reese looked displeased, Malcolm thinks. Did Malcolm do something wrong? Maybe he should have warned him before he _came inside his mouth_. Fuck. Maybe he shouldn’t have allowed his brother to give him a blowjob in the fucking first place. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He presses the heels of his hands harshly into his eyes. He can feel himself tearing up. This is so embarrassing. So fucking embarrassing.

Suddenly Reese is back. Malcolm is still hiding behind his hands, but he hears Reese take a sip of something before sighing loudly and throwing a blanket at him.

“Oh come on, Malcolm, don’t be such a wimp," he complains. "What does mom always say? I can’t even leave you alone for one second!” The last bit is delivered in a scratchy and very bad impression of their mother. When Malcolm doesn’t respond, Reese spreads out the blanket on top of him properly, crams in the sides under Malcolm, obviously not caring about how Malcolm’s dick is smearing saliva and cum on it. It’s probably the one their parents shared last night while watching TV.

Then Reese climbs on top of him, straddles his midsection and pulling his hands away from his face. Malcolm struggles to no avail. He still hasn’t managed to quell his tears.

He feels miserable.

Reese won’t have it. He pins his wrists to the bed, kisses his eyelids, left, then right, then his lips, his right cheek. He wants to tell Reese that he's sorry, overwhelmed by the weight of his transgression, overwhelmed by the situation they have managed to get themselves into. The tears flow freely now, dampening the sheet on both sides of his head. They only stop when Reese leans in closer and whispers in his ear: “Stop crying, you little shit, if you want me to do that again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> maybe 'say uncle' will be our ~~safeword~~ 'always'
> 
> i wish y'all some terribly comfy holidays! stay safe! stay home! read porn!


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